For Anyone
by Mala
Summary: Will Brian Kinney ever appreciate what he has? Is it too late?


Title: "For Anyone" 1/1  
Author: Mala  
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com  
Fandom: "Queer as Folk"-US version.  
Spoilers: Through the first season.  
Rating/Classification: 'R' for language. Angst. Brian/Justin.  
Disclaimer: I don't own them! Nope!  
Summary: Will Brian ever appreciate what he has?  
You're a heartless shit. It's who you are. Brian Kinney the Magnificent Asshole. The numerical weight of your ego is exceeded only by the number of guys you've fucked and thrown aside.  
  
For years, you've been complacent, casually accepting of who you are, and the life you live. Nothing gets in the way of what you want. And what you want is what's good for you and only you. It's the status quo. The way things are.  
  
Lindsey sometimes tells people that she admires you. She admires you because there's no bullshit. No promises, no apologies, no excuses. You are who you are and you won't change for anyone.  
  
Yeah, the heartless shit.  
  
Right.  
  
That's you.  
  
That's why you find yourself propped up on your elbow, watching this gorgeous kid asleep with his golden head on the stark white pillow. He was just a trick you picked up one night...beautiful, innocent little conquest...seventeen and never-been-fucked. A shrink would probably tell you that you were sublimating your panic over impending fatherhood in another child.  
  
But the shrink would be wrong, because Justin's no child.   
  
And he wasn't just a trick.  
  
He didn't leave. He didn't fade. He didn't follow the rules.  
  
You had his sweet little virgin ass and you marked him. You branded him. You told him to always remember. And he listened. He thought it meant something. He thought *you* meant something.  
  
Sometimes he tells you he's sorry. That he didn't mean for it to happen. It's his standard whine when he fucks something up. When your place got trashed, when his father nearly broke your ribs, when he stole your credit card and took that ridiculous trip to Chelsea to be a "Go-Go Boy"...he told you he didn't mean it.  
  
But, sometimes, you think the little bastard meant for it *all* to happen. That he somehow planned it that first night, when you slid inside him and he kissed you and thought you tasted like something worth his completely insane adoration.   
  
He doesn't care that you're too damn old for him. He doesn't care when you treat him like shit. When you take home tricks from Babylon that aren't him...but might have the Pollyanna twinkle of his blue eyes or the curve of his pale hips. He comes quietly when you nod, when you crook your finger, and lets you take him hard and rough anywhere, anyway, any time. And he doesn't let you push him away.  
  
He stays. He stays when everyone else leaves you.  
  
You're a heartless shit.   
  
And he loves you.  
  
And, sometimes, when he's asleep, like this, and not talking your ear off like a goddamned guest lecturer, you look at the way his eyelashes are all dark against his skin...and you trace circles around the soft dip inside his elbow...and you think...you think...oh fuck *no*.  
  
You don't... You can't...  
  
But he doesn't care if you do or don't.  
  
And you're not sorry.  
  
You are who you are and you won't change for anyone.  
  
Not even him.  
  
***  
  
He picked a fine time to doze off, you think. Worthless little brat.   
  
He always does this.  
  
Always makes you get low and vulnerable and achy when he can't see it in your eyes. And you still can't believe you actually came to his fucking *prom* of all things and danced with him. You held him close...he smelled like clean soap and margarita mix and all the wicked things you were going to do to him at the end of the night. He looked at you like you built the world in a day and you almost believed you did.  
  
He has you believing all kinds of things.  
  
"Wake up, you little shit!" you hiss through clenched teeth. "Come on, Justin...I'm waiting for you. And you know I fucking hate waiting."  
  
He doesn't stir. And there's this pretty little smile on his lips that makes you think he's dreaming about you and him and some sappy happy ending where you realize how much you take him for granted and how you can't bear to live without him.  
  
"I can go to Babylon tonight, you know. I can go pick up any guy in the ROOM, Babyface. I *can* live without you...and I'm going to prove it if you don't wake your ass up."  
  
But, like every other time it's fucking *vital*, he doesn't listen to you.   
  
You lean forward in the stiff, plastic, hospital chair, straining for just one sigh...just one syllable...but he's silent. For the first time since you've known him, he's silent. And the whirring of the machines, the steady beep of the heart monitor, is the only sound you hear. Not his whine. Not his laugh. Not the husky way he moans your name into your mouth.   
  
You clutch your bloodstained scarf in your hands...see the baseball bat swinging through the air...watch him fall again and again and again. You swear for a few long minutes. Every word you know. And then you say something that might be "I can't lose you"...or maybe "I love you."  
  
Either way, it's the same thing.  
  
Either way, it's true.  
  
And you won't apologize.  
  
Because if he dies, you really *will* be the heartless shit that everyone thinks you are.   
  
Because *he's* your heart.  
  
Justin's your heart.   
  
"Oh God. Oh fucking God. Please, wake up."  
  
--end--  
December 30, 2001. 


End file.
